


Murphy's Law

by FlyAway_33



Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Concussions, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Roger Taylor (Queen), Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Concussion Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyAway_33/pseuds/FlyAway_33
Summary: Murphy's law states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.What will be affected when a seemingly insignificant mistake is made backstage?
Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691062
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize this, it is because it has been posted before. I previously had it as part of a single story of unrelated chapters, and wanted to reorganize those chapters into individual stories so that I have the opportunity to continue and one of the multiple story lines. Now those chapters will all be re-posted into a series!
> 
> TW: blood

“QUEEN DRUMMER INVOLVED IN ACCIDENT AT CONCERT”

The headline glared up at Freddie and Brian from the nearby news stand as they reached for the drinks they were retrieving from an old battered vending machine in a florescent lit hallway. It had been less than 12 hours after the accident and the press was already reporting, speculating, and circling like vultures. Freddie just sighed and rolled his eyes in annoyance as he headed back to the room at the end of the hallway, Brian following forlornly. They never thought they would be in this situation: scared shitless and just waiting for their best friend, the heartbeat of Queen to wake up.

It had been some of the most stressful few hours of their lives ever since they’d heard a muffled shout from backstage as Brian cut off his guitar chord. The three of them still on the dark stage could tell something was wrong when Roger’s ending drum cue never came, Roger who never missed a beat. The frantic shouts from behind the riser that they could hear, even over the roar of the crowd only confirmed their concerns. Something was very wrong. 

Brian was the first to bolt backstage being the closest, with Freddie and Deaky hot on his heels. All three of them felt their hearts drop at the sight before them as they rounded the back of the riser. Roger was laying sprawled out on the floor, clearly unconscious as Crystal, his assistant was doubled over his head, holding it still and keeping his neck straight as he shouted for help. 

“Rog! Stay with me, mate!” He cried. 

Roger’s eyes fluttered opened but were unfocused and confused. He saw bright stars floating around in his darkened vision and the dim lights of backstage blossomed before his eyes. His head felt heavy as he tried to sit up and he immediately collapsed back into Crystal’s hands, a massive, heavy pain overtaking his head and neck. Blood was visible coloring his lips as they parted in a sigh and even more was visible on Crystal’s hands from where he was holding Roger’s head. Suddenly, Roger’s body convulsed and he was vomiting. Crystal shouted in panic and braced Roger’s neck with his arms. “Someone fucking help me!” He yelled. 

Brian was the first to register what was happening and rushed to aid Crystal in turning Roger onto his side whilst keeping his spine stable. Thank God they knew some first aid. 

“Roger,” Brian knelt in front of him, “Roger can you hear me?” But the drummer’s eyes didn’t search, and instead fluttered closed once more. “Fucking hell, Rog!” Brian cried in distress, looking wildly around at Freddie and Deaky as the backstage medics finally swarmed, bumping Brian and Crystal both out of the huddle. They had Roger strapped to a backboard in seconds and whisked him away before the bandmates could even register what was happening. 

“Bloody hell…” Deaky gasped, running a hand through his hair. “What just happened?”

Crystal stood up, holding his shaking, bloody hands in front of him, staring at them in shock. “He fell off the drum riser. Fucking Shag moved his stool when he was up— I don’t know what he was thinking. He hit his head on that monitor there. That’s a six foot drop. I don’t know what the hell—“ he was rambling, his mind racing with what he’d just witnessed, knowing it was bad. Really bad. 

“Fuck!” Freddie spat. “Well let’s go then! He needs us there with him!” 

“Come on.” Peter, Freddie’s assistant stepped forward, brandishing a set of car keys. “Come on, the lot of you.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door, and the four flustered men scrambled after him. Every heart full of terror, every mind wondering what the outcome of this could be.

Roger could hear muffled voices that made it sound like he was underwater, overlaid with a loud ringing in his ears. His head swam as he tried to get his bearings and he felt the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life pressing down on his head. It felt like there was a boulder rolling around in his skull as he tried to move. He could taste a strong salty, metallic taste in his mouth which he recognized as blood and he groaned loudly as he tried to regain feeling in his hands, feeling stiff bedsheets beneath him. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where he was or how he’d gotten there, and tried to open his eyes but the bright light of wherever he was assaulted his retinas. His eyes squeezed shut even tighter to prevent his already throbbing headache from worsening.

“Roger?” he heard a muffled voice ask. He knew that voice but his head swam too much to place it. He felt a warm hand grasp his and give it a squeeze. “Rog, come on, mate, wake up.” The voice was slowly becoming clearer and it was thick with emotion, but the ringing in his ears was still too prominent to allow him to appreciate it. “It’s John, Rog, come on now. That’s it.”  
Roger eased his eyes open slowly as John encouraged him, squinting at the light that only made his headache intensify. 

“Glasses,” he croaked up at the blur that must’ve been the bassist. 

“Oh! Right here.” John pulled a pair of Roger’s prescription sunglasses from his pocket and gently placed them on his friend’s nose. He had grabbed them from the floor backstage on the way out of the door immediately after the fall and was now extremely glad that he had.

Roger relaxed his eyes ever so slightly as the shade and correction to his vision eased just a little bit of the pain. “Thanks.” He sighed, blinking cautiously. They helped improve the blur a little bit, but now the room spun and he couldn’t quite pinpoint where John actually was, as there were almost two of him. 

“Shall I fetch a doctor?” John asked nervously. 

“No— Am I in a hospital? What happened?” Roger glanced around the room but it felt like he was on a tilt a whirl as he tried to look around. He couldn’t get his bearings. “Ah fuck.” He gasped, curling onto his side. John grabbed a bowl and held it under Roger’s chin as he became sick. 

John was startled by how bad his friend looked. He was so pale, shaking, and had dark circles under his eyes. John had never seen him in such a state. “Shit, okay mate I’ll be right back, sit tight.” John put the bowl down when Roger finished, spun on his heel before he could respond and hurried out of the room, reappearing moments later with Brian, Freddie, and an older man in a white lab coat in tail. 

“Rog thank God— we’ve been worried sick!” Brian exclaimed as he rushed to his bedside. Freddie stayed back nervously, watching, observing, and wringing his hands. 

“Mr. Taylor. Do you know where you are?” The man who must’ve been the doctor approached and glanced at the monitor and IV bag. He looked to be in his late fifties or sixties with his silver hair and half-moon spectacles. 

“I guess a hospital. Can someone explain to me what the hell is going on?”

“What is the last thing you remember?” 

“Uhh, I was drumming. The concert. It goes blank after Champions.” 

“You had a serious fall at the end of the concert and hit your head, son. You have a serious concussion and a cerebral contusion— bruising on your brain tissue, but we’ve been monitoring it closely. We stapled the back of your head where it was lacerated from the fall. You’ll probably be very sore in your head, neck, and back for a while, and you’ll certainly need to take some precautions until you’re healed. A concussion is a traumatic brain injury and needs to be treated as such to heal correctly.”

“How did I fall?” Roger’s confused eyes squinted up at his bandmates as tried to remember, but it just wasn’t coming to him.

“Er, we’ll let Crystal explain that one…” Deaky began with a chuckle, returning to his bedside. “He’ll be back at some point, he and Peter went to get cleaned up and get us some clothes and such.”

“I feel like absolute hell.” Roger whimpered, just wanting to sink into the bed as his head pounded. “I’ll be alright though, right?”

“Well, Mr. Taylor, we need to do a neurological exam and you need another CT to check on the contusion. We need to make sure it hasn’t gotten worse.” The doctor moved to his bedside and took his vitals. He scribbled them down on the chart along with some notes and pulled out a pen light. “Sit up, son. And you’ll need to take off your glasses.” 

John and Brian rushed to his aid and pulled him into a sitting position. He groaned loudly and doubled over in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as his head pounded so hard he didn’t know how he was still conscious. “Gimme a sec, doc.” He grunted out in pain. Minutes passed before he finally straightened up and took his sunglasses off. 

The doctor shone his penlight into each of Roger’s eyes and scribbled something else down on the chart. Roger’s vision was too blurry to see what it was. “Alright, son, I want you to hold your right arm out like this and bring your pointer finger to the tip of your nose.” 

The doctor demonstrated and Roger copied, only his finger touched his right cheek, not his nose. “Fuck,” he hissed, moving his finger to the correct place. 

“Okay, show me with your left.”

He tried, but this time overshot and practically punched himself in the face. “What’s wrong with me?” His voice was barely above a whimper, so small and thin. The boys all cringed at the panic in their bandmate’s tone. Roger could be quite a baby when it came to getting his way but he never ever showed an ounce of pain when it came to getting hurt. He rarely complained when his drumming tore up his hands or when he had to play through an illness. Nothing could stop Roger from playing. He was truly the heart of the band and no one liked to see him in such a vulnerable position. 

“Your concussion is quite severe,” was all the doctor offered in terms of information. He finished up the exam and told them that he would be back in a few hours to check in, but for now that Roger needed to remain in bed. They could all tell that the results of the exam weren’t ideal based on the doctor’s tone. 

“Well, mate,” Brian began, patting Roger’s shoulder as he settled back into bed. “We’re going to head out and change out of these damn costumes. We’ll be back sometime later.”

Roger gave him a weak smile as he slowly laid back down but he was shaken and terrified inside. The doctor hadn’t told him much he didn’t already know and he was scared of what recovery might look like. He wanted to be back on the road playing huge venues with his best friends but inside he felt that idea was in peril. Though his recall was affected a bit from the fall he was wracking his brain for anything he had learned in his biology degree about the brain. He knew TBI’s could be very serious and was wondering if his entire drumming career was in peril due to his currently sloppy motor skills. 

Brian and John walked out with smiles and encouraging waves, but Freddie stayed behind, closing the door as the other bandmates left. He then turned half the lights off to make it easier on Rog’s eyes and turned toward the bed, approaching his best friend. “Roger, I know you’re scared.” Freddie stated, his eyes boring into Roger’s.

At his words Roger felt hot tears well up in his eyes and immediately spill over. Before he could register his own emotions he was sobbing into his hands and shaking like a leaf. This strong surge of emotion scared him even more and he felt as though he was losing control. He was devastated mulling over the possibilities of what could come from this. How long would he be unable to play? Would they need to cancel the rest of the tour? Would they be able to make another album? Would he ever heal completely? All of these questions swirled around in his mind, overwhelming him to the point where he could not get a grip on reality. Anxiety swelled in his chest and he felt as though he couldn’t breathe as he felt his world spiral out of control.  
“Come on now, Rog, you’re alright.” Freddie said in a low voice and perched on the bed putting an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe with me. We don’t need you to be sedated by force, now.” 

Roger took a gasping breath and wiped furiously at his tears. This wasn’t like him and he knew it, he had to control himself. He then turned to Freddie and threw his arms around his best friend in a tight, desperate bear hug. Freddie could feel the fear and desperation behind the action and held onto his friend tight in solidarity, trying his best to ground him, make him feel secure and wordlessly convey the message that he was going to be there through it all. 

“I am scared, Fred.” Roger hiccuped over Freddie’s shoulder. “I’m really fucking scared.”


	2. Chapter 2

The array of tests done on Roger yielded the results he feared: He wouldn’t be drumming any time soon. His doctor told him they were going to treat it like a sports injury. The tour was off and he was devastated. Freddie had tried to console him by reminding him that they were only missing a few dates, that none of those dates were sold out shows anyway, but Roger couldn’t help but be upset. Being a rockstar was his dream, his job, and the fact that an injury was keeping him from it was dreadful. 

Of course when Roger’s assistant, Crystal, informed him that it was a roadie who moved his stool, causing him to fall off the riser, that roadie was fired on the spot, and Crystal promised to take on his old responsibilities as Roger’s roadie. The drummer hadn’t even had the energy to be angry and it had honestly frightened his mates that he’d been so calm when he found out. All he had done was sigh in defeat and direct the band’s manager, Miami, to fire the roadie at fault. 

Roger was discharged from the hospital two days after the fall with his medical file and a plane ticket home, along with instructions to have another neurological exam in two weeks. None of this was what he planned for, and he was miserable. The boys had tried to cheer him up for the plane ride by offering him a scrabble tournament, knowing he was already a nervous flyer and needed distraction, but he’d broken all their hearts when he’d just grimaced and in the tiniest voice they’d ever heard from him, said “I think I just want to sleep.”

Of course flying with a severe concussion and cerebral contusion was not a fun thing to do at all. Flying always caused him headaches to begin with and his condition only made him feel like he was in Hell. He was in so much pain it was nearly unbearable and it felt like his head was in a vice grip and like someone had gone at his back with a sledgehammer, sore all over from the fall. He was dizzy and emotional as well, and the takeoff had been a traumatic experience for everyone as Roger, a grown man and a very stubborn and self reliant one at that, cried like a baby as his ears popped and his head throbbed. 

“Oh God it hurts,” He sobbed, his eyes screwed tight and his entire body tensed against the pressure change as they ascended. He couldn’t process any other thought other than the searing pain he could feel in his head and spine.

“You’re alright, Roggie,” Brian, who sat beside him, sighed in response as he ran his long fingers through the drummer’s hair in a feeble attempt to soothe him, carefully avoiding the staples holding his scalp together in the back. It was painful for all of them to see the drummer experiencing so much agony. Brian wished he could hold him or do anything to make it better but they were all useless during takeoff, confined to their seats and forbidden to give anything to the drummer. 

“It hurts, Bri, it hurts…” Roger whimpered, his voice a pathetically forced, high whisper. His scarred knuckles were white as snow as he gripped the armrests, desperately trying to disappear into the seat. “Oh, God it hurts!” Roger’s voice rose and cracked weakly on that last demand as his writhing started to slow, and Brian quickly realized with a flood of relief he was about to pass out.

“Shh shh, Roger, you’re all right. We’re going home.” Brian petted him as he sunk down in his seat, his muscles beginning to relax.

“I want… Ma…” the drummer whispered before he finally went limp. He’d passed out from pure, unadulterated pain and exhaustion. 

“That took a lot out of him,” Freddie noted after a moment of still silence, everyone holding their breath to make sure the drummer was out. Freddie peered curiously over the backs of the seats from his and John’s behind Roger’s and Brian’s. “Poor dear.”

“I’ve never seen him in so much pain.” Brian agreed, his voice laced with despair as he took it upon himself to recline Roger’s seat for him, and with Freddie’s help they eased the drummer back into a more comfortable position. 

“I know, that made me choke up a bit,” Freddie admitted softly, his voice thick with emotion as he stroked a few blond strands out of Roger’s face. “Did he, uh, ask for his mum there at the end?”

“Yeah…” 

“We should try to all sleep while he’s asleep.” John suddenly broke in, his brows knitted together in concern. “I think this is going to be a rough trip. Not to compare him to a newborn but—“ he gestured vaguely toward Rog, a grim expression on his face, “you know what they say. He’s gonna need us so we should sleep while we can.” John was the only one of the group who was a dad and he automatically compared dealing with a fussy Roger to dealing with a fussy baby. His first instinct was to ‘sleep while the baby sleeps.’ 

Luckily, they’d secured a small private jet for the trip back that just held them and their main crew: Miami, Crystal, Phoebe, and Ratty among them. The band got the back of the plane so that they could sleep and have some privacy and the beautiful jet had fully reclining seats they could take advantage of. They all made their best effort to try to nap while Roger did, but Brian couldn’t even close his eyes so he stayed awake, reading an astronomy magazine he’d picked up in the States, just so he could hear any signs of distress from the drummer while the others slept. Brian considered it lucky when they ended up getting a full half hour nap out of the blond, as he never expected him to stay out that long and he knew the ride would be miserable once more for the drummer after he awoke.

“Bloody hell, Rog” Brian exclaimed later in the flight as he held a doggie bag open for his bandmate to relieve his motion sickness into for the third time. “How many times is this going to happen?”

“Fuck off, Bri,” Roger grumbled as he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “But thanks for that,” he mumbled gesturing to the bag Brian was sealing so that it could be disposed of. “My brain is attacking me, so I don’t know how many times that might happen. Does that answer your question?” He reached for his half-full bottle of water and downed it in one go, bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t take any over the counter pain relievers for his pounding head, as the doctors told him they would thin his blood and put him at risk for a bleed.

He’d calmed down significantly since his post-takeoff nap. Now that the pressure in the cabin had stabilized his headache was no longer completely unbearable and he’d gone from begging for mercy to just being an irritable little brat, much like he was when he was severely hungover or ill. His bandmates could handle this Roger, but the Roger from takeoff who had been literally sobbing for his mother had them in a little over their heads. 

Freddie decided be would be staying with Rog to keep an eye on him, so when they finally did arrive at Heathrow airport, Brian and John split their separate ways and Freddie ushered Roger into an awaiting car as their assistants dealt with their luggage. He looked pitifully at his friend who had curled up on the back seat of the town car, “It’s alright, Rog,” Freddie comforted, “we’ll be home soon” but he received no answer from the grumpy drummer.

As they entered the house, Roger didn’t even want to look in the direction of the practice drum kit he had set up in a front room, the various guitars propped up on stands and against walls that were littered everywhere in the house, or the neat keyboard that sat waiting for someone to give it some attention in the living room. He made a beeline for his bedroom and ignored the record player in the corner as he immediately drew his blackout curtains, blocking out the rare London sunlight and plunging his room into the darkness he had been seeking to wallow in since he first woke up from his fall. He didn’t want to even think about music right now. It wouldn’t make him feel better until he could play it himself. Without a second thought to Freddie or their assistants, he collapsed onto his bed and fell into a long awaited, deep sleep. 

The band took a day to get used to the time zone, mostly sleeping (not that they had regular sleep schedules to begin with, anyway). Freddie mostly stayed holed up in his room at Roger’s house but periodically went to check on the drummer and took the keyboard from the living room to keep himself occupied during waking hours. The following evening Brian and Deaky stopped by Roger’s house after supper, already missing their brothers and still concerned for Roger’s health as well as his mental state. They all knew that things that disrupted Roger’s life easily sent him into a downward spiral of anxiety. Brian and Deaky were not surprised in the slightest when Freddie sat them down at the table for tea and told them that Rog was still in bed. 

“He got up a few hours ago to take a piss but he hasn’t been legitimately awake and up since we arrived home.” Freddie said somberly. He’d been keeping a watchful eye on the door to the blond’s room. “So, that means he hasn’t eaten or taken care of himself at all. It’s been a full day.” 

The boys exchanged worried glances as it was not like Roger to not eat or bathe. The man usually took several showers every day, rarely if ever skipped brushing his teeth, and generally hated feeling dirty. He ate fairly well but the skipping meals part wasn’t quite as alarming to the boys as it was a habit he retained from when he and Freddie hadn’t had enough money to eat regularly. 

“Do you think he’s depressed?” Deaky asked cautiously, his eyes darting to Brian who suffered from clinical depression, himself.

“Well,” Brian began, mulling over that idea, “He’s suffered from pretty severe anxiety in the past so he probably is prone to falling into depression, the two are closely related, but even without getting into technicalities it is a very real possibility.” Brian sighed, trying to reign in the scientist in him. “I mean, we have all seen and experienced his unhealthy coping mechanisms. But he could also just be feeling like shit.”

The boys nodded in understanding, silently agreeing with each other that regardless of the reason Roger was hiding away it was up to them to band together and support him.

“Well!” Freddie stood with a clap of his hands and started toward Roger’s room. “I think it’s about time to go annoy our dear drummer.” Brian and John exchanged fond smirks and quickly followed their frontman as he threw Roger’s door open and strode right in without invitation.

“Go away, Fred.” Roger groaned as he pulled a pillow over his head to block out the intrusive light. 

“Nonsense, dear, we miss you.”

Roger peeked out from beneath the pillow to see who ‘we’ included, and he couldn’t help a small smile that touched his lips for a moment as he saw his bandmates. He checked the clock, “It’s been a day, did you miss me that much?” he teased, but he wouldn’t admit that he missed them all just as much. 

Without words Freddie wasted no time as he clambered onto the bed and snuggled up to the drummer in the most obnoxious fashion, Brian joining on Roger’s other side and John joining beside Freddie. Soon, he was enveloped in the warm and undeniably comforting embrace of all three of his band mates. 

“How ya feeling, Roggie?” John asked softly after they’d all settled, his arm tightening around Freddie and Roger.

“Alright, actually, I just feel like my head is imploding.”

“Still hurts, yeah?” Brian asked.

“Like a bitch.”

“How’s your back, darling?” Freddie sighed, stroking a finger down Roger’s arm in a soothing gesture.

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“Ah.”  
“Ouch.”  
“Yikes.” 

“Well, darling, I’m sure you’ll be in tip top shape in no time at all…” Freddie trailed off feeling awkward and at a loss for words. He could feel Roger tense in his arms and a thought occurred to Freddie that he was beating a dead horse. Roger didn’t want reassurances or sympathy, he wanted someone to wallow with him. “I know this bloody sucks, mate,” Freddie’s tone dropped, doing a 180 from his prior cheery and encouraging tone. “We need you back.” the statement was supported by the sad murmurings of agreement from the other two.

Roger turned his face into Freddie’s shoulder, his entire body tense and trembling as though he were holding something inside of him that was fighting to burst out. Before long, Freddie could feel his shirt dampening and realized that his best friend was crying. He tightened his arms and curled around him with his chin resting on his hair, and wished with all his might that he could protect the fragile drummer. 

Soft sobs began to escape Roger’s chest as he clung to Freddie, and he cried for all one stupid mistake from a random roadie had cost him— had cost them. He was grieving the loss of shows, parties, experiences with his favorite people. He felt all of that had been stolen away from them, and felt immense guilt that he was keeping his band from the final shows of the tour and keeping fans from seeing them perform. The grief and guilt was overpowering, but somewhere in the back of his pounding head he remembered learning in one of his biology classes that trauma could affect one’s control of their emotions, so he allowed himself to lose it in Freddie’s arms, surrounded by the very people he was grieving for and with.

Eventually, Roger began to calm, the gentle touches and coos of encouragement from his bandmates soothing his troubled soul. He realized that no matter how much this accident had taken from him, he knew one thing: all he really needed were his bandmates.

The four of them stayed like that, all smooshed in the too-small bed as the light faded from the gaps in the curtains. Together, four best friends— brothers, embracing in solidarity around the one who needed the other three.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
